The Garatron Chronicles
by Qoheleth
Summary: Containing everything you ever wanted to know about the Garatron race, including why they look so much like Andalites, why they can run so fast, and what they're doing on the Anati homeworld.
1. Prologos

Disclaimer: Me Qoheleth. She Applegate. She own _Animorphs_. Me no own _Animorphs_.

* * *

My name is Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill.

To a human, that probably does not sound like a name at all. Humans have many different kinds of names, but none like Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill. I am aware of this, but it is nonetheless my name – because I am not a human.

I am an Andalite. I am the only Andalite on Earth, unless you count War-Prince Alloran-Semitur-Corrass. And it is difficult to count him, because he is no longer his own Andalite, but the host of Visser Three.

Visser Three is a Yeerk. He is not the only Yeerk on Earth, though it would be well for Earth if he was, for the Yeerks do not have Earth's best interest at heart. They are a vile race of parasitic worms, who exist only to control and enslave other races.

They have conquered the Gedds and the Hork-Bajir. They have persuaded the Taxxons to surrender themselves to them. They have for some time been slowly infiltrating the human race, attempting to corrupt it from within.

And, this morning, it became clear that they have moved against another species.

You see, this morning I and four of the young humans who fight the Yeerks with me moved against Visser Three in his feeding place. Since he infests an Andalite, he must eat as we do, and when he eats, he is vulnerable.

It was supposed to be a simple assassination. But we were prevented by the Visser's personal guard – and by something else. A small, Andalite-like creature that could move almost faster than thought.

It was a Yeerk. A candidate for the Yeerks' all-powerful Council of Thirteen, in fact. It described its host body as the newest of the Yeerks' host species. And it gave it a name.

Garatron.

My human friends did not know what that meant, of course. They noticed that the creature looked very like an Andalite, but they did not worry very much about it. What concerned them was whether we could use the Council candidate to discredit Visser Three in the eyes of the Yeerk Empire – and, if so, whom we should choose to lead that mission, since our usual leader was not with us.

These things concerned me as well, of course. They did not, however, concern me nearly so much as the sight of that Garatron-Controller.

For thousands of years, Andalite parents had been urging their children to study the sciences «because we must be ready when the Garatrons return». Well, now the Garatrons had returned – and they were under the control of the Yeerks.

If the Yeerks could conquer the Garatrons – the Misborn – the bogeymen that had haunted Andalite nightmares for millennia…

Well, suffice it to say that I was disturbed. Disturbed enough, that evening, to forget the words to a ritual that I had performed a thousand times.

«From the rising of the sun to the setting, to its rising again,» I said, «I place what is sweet to… no, I place what is hard to remember with what is… no…»

«We place what is hard to endure with what is sweet to remember,» said a voice. I turned an eyestalk, and saw my friend Tobias alighting on a branch behind me.

«Ah, yes,» I said. «Thank you, Tobias. We place what is hard to endure with what is sweet to remember, and we find peace.»

«Amen,» said Tobias.

The two of us stood for a moment in silence, watching the last rays of Earth's sun sink below the horizon. Then Tobias spoke.

«So, Ax,» he said, «what's the deal with these Garatrons?»

I froze. «I beg your pardon?»

«Come on, Ax-man,» said Tobias. «Maybe you can fool the others, but you can't fool me. When Marco asked if there was a relationship between Garatrons and Andalites, that wasn't offense I saw on your face; that was terror.»

«Terror?» I said, attempting to laugh. «Why should I be terrified of the Garatrons?»

«I don't know,» said Tobias. «Why don't you tell me?»

He stared at me, and I felt myself begin to weaken. Tobias is what we Andalites call a _nothlit_: one who has spent more than two hours in the form of another species, and can no longer return to his natural form. In his case, the species is a kind of Earthly bird known as a red-tailed hawk – and one of the characteristics of red-tailed hawks is that their eyes are more penetrating than the eyes of nearly any other animal I know of. When a red-tailed hawk stares at you, you must be a much stronger person than I am to preserve your equanimity.

«Very well,» I said after sixteen seconds had elapsed. «I will tell you.»

And I told him everything I knew about the Garatrons. But then something unusual happened: after a while, I began to tell him things about the Garatrons that I did not know – that no Andalite, perhaps, had ever learned before.

How I came by this knowledge, I do not know. But I have set it down here, all the same, in hopes that someday some Andalite, or perhaps some human, will find it and learn from it, and be a little wiser for it in the end.

I have not, of course, set it down in the order that I told it to Tobias. To him it came out piece by piece, in response to a question he asked, or as an afterthought comment related to something else I had said. Here I have told it in the order that it happened – beginning in the Andalite year -15.7, as an Andalite scientist was performing a breakthrough experiment.


	2. Prologos Deuteros

«I fail to see what you intend to prove, Scholar Falkrith,» said Nimavar-Povis-Alkati, Head of Science and Technology for the Andalite High Council. «It has repeatedly been mathematically demonstrated that matter cannot be transmitted through Zero-space.»

Falkrith-Ispadagar-Konin rolled all four of his eyes, as though despairing of ever making his fellow Andalites see reason. «_Mathematically_ demonstrated, Master Nimavar?» he said. «How can a scientific fact ever be mathematically demonstrated? Sessagal-Junhyb-Eteri did not develop the theory of gravitation by writing "Gm1m2/r^2" on a blackboard; she developed it by dropping weights from high places, and studying the motions of the moons. She did it, in short, by observing the universe – which is the only way to truly make any scientific discovery.»

«In an ideal world, that may well be true, Scholar Falkrith,» said Nimavar patiently, «but it seems somewhat impractical in this case. After all, a four-dimensional being can never directly perceive Zero-space.»

«Of course not,» said Falkrith, «but we can observe its effects on the universe we do know. We can measure the changes in the photons and neutrinos we send through low-level Z-space loops; we can examine the quantum nature of the light coming from QSO-1135; and then we can determine whether the reality affecting them is more like the non-dimensional singularity of a cone or the multi-dimensional "blossom" surrounding a _volip _particle.»

Nimavar nodded. «Yes, yes, Scholar Falkrith,» he said. «I am familiar with all the arguments you made in your paper. I confess, however, that they have as yet failed to convince me.»

«So I was told, Master Nimavar,» said Falkrith. «I can only hope that, when you see the thing actually occurring, you will find it rather more persuasive.»

Nimavar sighed. «Well, then, proceed,» he said. «Let me warn you, however, that, should your experiment fail, I will personally see to it that you will never have the opportunity to perform another.»

Falkrith cocked his head. «I had not realized that you harbored such a dislike for me, Master Nimavar,» he said.

«Nor did I,» said Nimavar, «until you called me away from my daughter's wedding ceremony to witness a scientific impossibility.»

«Ah,» said Falkrith with a smile. «Well, perhaps if we hurry, you can present her with the first object to travel through Z-space as a wedding token. Now, then, would you care to examine the apparatus?»

Nimavar glanced at the mechanical monstrosity suspended over the river, and frowned. «That is your apparatus?» he said.

«It is,» said Falkrith.

«May I ask why it is obstructing the flow of a major waterway?»

Falkrith frowned, and seemed uncertain for the first time during the interview. «Yes, I was concerned about that also,» he said, «but the nature of the reactions involved required a fairly rapid cooling system, and the Ilarda was the only nearby river that flowed swiftly enough.»

«I see,» said Nimavar. «And you believe, of course, that the discovery that you are certain you will make is more important than whether several hundred Andalites living alongside the Ilarda have clean water for the next few weeks – to say nothing of the _therant_ and _quilfin_ trees.»

«Yes, Master Nimavar,» said Falkrith, «that is precisely my belief.»

«Has anyone ever told you, Scholar Falkrith,» said Nimavar, «that you are a hubristic fool who should never have been allowed to receive Council funding?»

«Oh, yes,» said Falkrith. «You, my sister, my old physics teacher, approximately one colleague every week…»

Nimavar stamped his right hind hoof in his trademark gesture of impatience. «Enough of this,» he said. «Demonstrate your machine, Scholar Falkrith.»

«Gladly, Master Nimavar,» said Falkrith. «If you will keep your stalk eyes focused on the palladium cube atop the transmitter pyramid, and your main eyes on my hands…»

With practiced speed, he guided his fourteen fingers through an elaborate series of motions on the computer terminal resting on the riverbank. The apparatus began to whir and hum, and a large, crystalline pyramid, on which rested a shining, gray-white cube, began to glow with a piercing white light.

Falkrith leaped from the riverside and handed Nimavar a pair of concave lenses made from blue glass. «Don these optic shields and shut your main eyes, Master Nimavar,» he said. «The transmitter pyramid will soon become too bright to safely view unprotected.»

Nimavar complied, and the landscape took on a subdued lapis tone in his eyes – all save the crystalline pyramid, which retained much the same piercing whiteness it had had before. Whatever muting of its light had been accomplished by the shields was negated by the rapidity with which it was gaining in luminous intensity.

«In approximately 7.3 seconds,» said Falkrith, «the portal will open and transport the cube to the receptacle pyramid. The process will take less than three-thousandths of a second, so do not avert your eyes.»

This was easier said than done. The glowing pyramid was now so bright that it was physically painful to look at it, even with the optic shields. Nonetheless, Nimavar forced his stalk eyes to focus on it; if there was trickery involved in this demonstration, he wanted to see it at work, and if there wasn't, he scarcely wanted to go down in history as the Andalite who looked away during the first demonstration of Z-space mass transfer.

Then, for the briefest instant, he thought he saw a ripple in the air just above the pyramid – "an archway of nothingness", as he would famously describe it in a letter to Kirath-Monessim-Shapeel some days later. At the same moment, the palladium cube gave off a peculiar shimmer and disappeared – only to reappear, an instant later, on the somewhat smaller pyramid at the other end of the apparatus.

That was all. The glow of the transmitter pyramid faded into nothingness, the rumble of the machinery slowed to a halt, and Nimavar-Povis-Alkati, Head of Science and Technology for the High Andalite Council, ripped the optic shields from his stalk eyes and stared at Falkrith-Ispadagar-Konin as a child stares at a magician. «How did you do that, Scholar Falkrith?» he breathed.

«Through an application of special harmonics on the fifth-inversal sub-space level,» said Falkrith dryly. «Did you not read my paper, Master Nimavar?»

«But, by the Bodiless Powers, man,» said Nimavar, «this means the end of the lunar barrier. This means an Andalite race that can extend itself across the stars. This means…»

«A great deal for every person on this planet,» Falkrith agreed. «You see now, I trust, why I judged it worth your while to call you away from your daughter's wedding ceremony so that you could see it.»

Nimavar bowed his head. «My apologies, Scholar Falkrith,» he said. «I should not have made such a to-do over your request. It was merely that I am an old man, and that she is my only child.» He sighed. «You, who have never had a daughter, cannot fully understand – but I would almost rather that the Andalite race should never leave this world than that Ethalan should be disappointed today.»

Falkrith, indeed, did not understand this. Though he was capable of heroic passion where his work was concerned, in the area of ordinary affection he was as ignorant as any human sociopath, and the notion that some young female's marriage festivities were more important than the exploration of the universe (for so he understood Nimavar to be suggesting) seemed to him supremely contemptible. Andalite courtesy, however, prevented him from expressing this idea in thought-speak; he said, instead, «A noble sentiment, Master Nimavar. Indeed, there is little point in preparing a glorious future for the race if the race itself were to have no future – and therefore the reproductive union that your daughter is accomplishing is as important as anything we have done beside this river today.»

«Yes,» said Nimavar slowly, his tone suggesting that that was not quite what he had meant. «And since you value that… ah… reproductive union so highly, perhaps you would do me the honor of accompanying me when I return?»

«I would be honored, Master Nimavar,» said Falkrith.

He trotted over to his mechanism and removed the palladium cube from the receptacle pyramid, and the two of them turned and followed the Ilarda's current towards the ceremonial space – oblivious to the invisible, matter-contorting residuum that was leeching off the mechanism and mixing itself with the river's water.

* * *

The wedding of Ethalan-Povis-Tilagren, daughter of the Andalite High Council's Head of Science and Technology, to the young botanist Hilanal-Sitek-Parshini was, unsurprisingly, a rigidly formal affair. (If any error, or any abbreviation, was made in the ancient ritual, this would have been leaped upon by Nimavar's rivals as an indication of a slipshod or imprecise temperament – and, while this could have been overlooked in the political or artistic departments of the Council, it would have indelibly marred a Head of Science's reputation.) Since a formal Andalite wedding is nearly three hours long, and since Andalites do not like to stay still for extended periods of time, this meant that the crowd of idle sensation-hunters had greatly dwindled by the time the ceremony reached its central moment: the mutual dipping of hooves into the water.

«Our destinies are intertwined, as the leaves of an _alaksha_,» said Hilanal, pressing his right hand to Ethalan's left.

«Our blood is to be mingled, as the waters of the Ree and the Sikarfa,» said Ethalan, pressing her right hand to Hilanal's left in turn.

«Henceforth,» said Hilanal, «our eight hooves shall be as four; they shall tread the same paths, mark the same _sethlars_, **(1)** and drink from the same streams, till the both of us have departed from life.»

The two of them touched their forehooves to each other, then turned and dipped their hooves into the swift-flowing river. Ethalan let out a little sigh of pleasure as she felt the waters of the Ilarda flow through her leg, cold and bracing, sealing the bond between herself and her beloved – and, she thought with a slight pang of shame, legitimizing the young Andalite growing inside her.

For there was one respect in which the wedding of Ethalan and Hilanal deviated from custom. Typically, Andalite weddings were held on the first day of the mating season, but the exigencies of Nimavar's duties had made a three-day delay necessary if he was to attend. Ethalan and Hilanal, who had never been in close contact during mating time, had taken unfortunate advantage of this delay – and, when Ethalan had performed her routine medical scan that morning, she had learned that their union had borne fruit.

She had told no-one, not even Hilanal or her father, and she did not expect that they would ever learn. After all, even the most observant gossip would think nothing of a pregnancy thirteen months and thirty-three days long, rather than the usual fourteen months of an Andalite gestation period.

She had no notion of how her brief drink from the river Ilarda would affect her child.

Nor did she begin to conceive how that child, and a few dozen others like him, would one day change the course of Andalite history forever.

* * *

**(1)**

_«Mark the same what?» said Tobias._

_«_Sethlars_,» said Ax. «At that time in history, an Andalite warrior would signal triumph over a fallen enemy by dipping his hoof in the enemy's blood and leaving a bloody hoofprint, called a _sethlar_, on his forehead. The implication in the wedding ritual is that the groom's enemies and the bride's have become the same.»_

_«Ah.»_


	3. Cholos

My name was Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer.

When I was born, my mother screamed.

I cannot blame her. Andalites do not use sonograms, although they have the technology – they believe that the growth of an infant in the womb is among those things that ought to remain hidden – and so she had no way of knowing that she was giving birth to a monster.

Not that I was some sort of huge, six-legged beast, like the prehistoric behemoths that my grandfather used to dig up. Indeed, by the standards of Andalite newborns, I was quite small: only about five and a half pounds, and mostly legs. But my face was squashed outwards, as though it had grown into an _illsipar_ bowl; my eyestalks were fused into a single, immobile growth that stared uselessly out the back of my head; my chest was absurdly inflated, while my legs were half again as long as my body type warranted; and, perhaps most disturbing of all, my tail had no blade. I was a grotesque, dwarfish parody of the true Andalite form.

Nor was I alone. In the months following my birth, over five dozen similar misbirths were reported to the Andalite High Council. All the mothers were females who either lived along the Ilarda River or had visited it early in their gestations. When my grandfather discovered this, he was furious, both with my mother and with Scholar Falkrith-Ispadagar-Konin.

«It must have been his experiment,» he said, pacing up and down my parents' scoop on the Island beyond the Warm Current. «His accursed Z-space transmitter – why didn't he check for the possibility of matter-destabilizing byproducts? Any fool could see that that was bound to be a risk in that kind of reaction…»

«You mean Scholar Falkrith's Z-space demonstration tainted the river?» said my mother.

«Of course,» said my grandfather. «Releasing, I would guess, over three million _kass_ particles into the most frequented waterway in the world. The bloody fool, if he ever asks the Science and Technology Sub-Council for another _lirit_ in funds…»

«But, if the water was contaminated,» said my father, «why were Ethalan and I unaffected? Oughtn't our bodies to have been misshapen just as Garatron's was?»

«Hilanal,» my grandfather snapped, «please attempt to think logically about this. When you and Ethalan dipped your hooves into the Ilarda, you couldn't have absorbed more than a few thousand particles, each scarcely a fermi across. Even granting the reality-warping potency of the _kass_ particle, an amount of that size could hardly have done more than distort a few cells. But, if there happened to be an organism living within one of you that only amounted, at that time, to a few cells… you follow me?»

My father dropped his tail in shame. «Yes, I see,» he said.

«Yes,» said my grandfather. «And now you also see, I trust, why I have every right to invite you outside and challenge you to a tail-fight to the death. If I had known, fourteen months ago, that I was giving my daughter to the sort of Andalite who takes advantage of young females before being lawfully wedded…»

«Oh, father, don't be harsh with Hilanal,» my mother pleaded. «We were both at fault, and I probably more than he. If you must have blood for this act, take mine.»

She knelt and exposed her throat to my grandfather's tail-blade, and my grandfather's eyes softened. «Get up, child,» he said brusquely. «Do you wish me to become a filicide? Your shame shall go unavenged, if you wish it so. However, the shame of my grandson, and of the others like him, is another matter.»

My mother closed all four of her eyes. «Yes, I know,» she said. «Forgive me, father. I never intended that my misdeed should cause Garatron to be born a _vecol_. I believe I would have thrown myself upon my own tail-blade that night, if I had known that I was condemning my son to a lifetime of isolation.»

My grandfather smiled softly. «But are you sure that you did, Ethalan-kala?» he said. «For it must be admitted that this is a highly unusual situation. There has never, to my knowledge, been another case where several dozen _vecols_, of exactly the same type, were born within a month of each other. I wonder whether the usual custom, in such a case, might not be susceptible to modification.»

My mother frowned. «You mean that Garatron might not require a sanctuary?»

«Not precisely,» said my grandfather. «His dignity would still depend on his being isolated from healthy Andalites – but what of the other mutated _vecols_? Might he not be able to live together with them without psychic injury?»

My father considered. «Possibly,» he said. «And that would provide him with something that most birth-_vecols_ never know: the sense of community, the herd-life that the psychologists say is so vital to the development of a healthy mind.»

«I think it is an excellent idea,» said my mother.

«Yes,» said my grandfather. «Unfortunately, there is a difficulty. In order for the place of isolation to hold some two dozen Andalite youths, it will have to be enormous. At least five hundred square miles, I would say – and there are very few areas of grassland left in the world that are both that large and sufficiently isolated.»

My father coughed. «If you will pardon me, Father Nimavar,» he said, «I may be able to provide a solution for that difficulty. In the year 12239.7, the High Council acquired an extensive area of savannah on the Northern Continent. It was expected that this would be allotted to provide living areas for some half-dozen or so families, until one of the speculators discovered a peculiar variety of _kathsil_ growing on it…»

My grandfather's eyes widened. «Ah, yes,» he said. «The Selicar Refuge.»

«Precisely, sir,» said my father. «Over a thousand square miles of unpopulated grassland, which happens to be owned by your own Science and Technology Sub-Council. And I also believe that you have been under some pressure from the Sub-Council for Commerce to open it up for settlement, on the belief that Selicar _kathsil_ has been sufficiently studied over the past seventy years; perhaps you could propose this as a compromise measure?»

The advantages of this course of action presented themselves to my grandfather like a succession of shooting stars. It would satisfy the Commerce Sub-Council; it would benefit his poor, mutated grandson; and it would restore the prestige that the Science and Technology Sub-Council would certainly lose when it became public that Falkrith's Z-space mass-transfer experiment had caused the mutations, as well as the prestige that he himself would lose when the Andalite public realized that his daughter had mated illicitly with her betrothed. If it was not a perfect plan, it was something very close to it.

«Well, we shall see,» he said. «One can never be certain, with my colleagues on the Council, how they will react to a new idea. But I think, my children,» he added, with a sly smile in his eyes, «that there is a good chance that the _morrimils_ of Selicar may soon find their dens disturbed by the patter of little hooves.»

He touched tails with my father, and stroked my mother's face. Then he turned to where I was sleeping, knelt down, and hesitantly stroked my misshapen face as well. «Sleep well, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,» he whispered. «May your childhood be one of happiness and tranquility; may your mind grow as strong as your body shall be frail; and may you bear your destiny with courage.»

Then he rose, took his leave of my parents' scoop, and set out for the Council Plains, little dreaming that the scheme he would there propose would determine the future of three races.


	4. Neotes

**Author's note:** This chapter, and several that follow, are less effective than they ought to be on this site, because of Fanfiction-dot-net's automatic "correction" feature. Apparently it is impossible to double-space between words without the site software "fixing" it for you, so the speech of the adult Andalites, as Garatron reports it, doesn't quite suggest the Ent-like ponderousness that I intended. I apologize for this, and I will keep my eye out for an alternative site that doesn't have this problem, so you can see the text as it was originally intended. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy what I did manage to retain here.

* * *

Andalite legend, I understand, suggests that I hated the Selicar Refuge as soon as I laid eyes on it, but this is quite untrue. When my parents took me to my new home on my third birthday, my immediate reaction was one of sheer wonder. I had never realized that such places existed; my parents had kept me in small, walled-off spaces for most of my early life, and the Selicar Refuge was my first glimpse of that vastness and openness that is so deeply rooted in every grazing creature's hearts.

Selicar, my grandfather said, was located on a part of the Northern Continent over which great sheets of ice had traveled in the distant past, during the age of the Voiceless People. That was why it contained such an odd mixture of rocks and minerals: the ice-sheets had gathered up pieces of all the lands they had covered, and had deposited it wherever they had happened to melt. There was even one region, he told me (though this was far to the south of the Refuge proper), where a boulder the size of a small hill had been laid to rest on an otherwise perfectly flat valley.

This, of course, was exactly the sort of notion that enchants a young male. «I,» I would tell myself, as I ran across the rolling valleys during my morning feeding, «am absorbing the soil of a multitude of lands, gathered together by wandering mountains at the very dawn of time.» **(2)** It was a pleasing thought, and I frequently found myself pitying the healthy Andalites who could not share it. Let their tails have three blades each, I was still richer than they.

Indeed, life in the Selicar Refuge offered many opportunities for pitying those Andalites who lived in the southern grasslands. What did those poor, benighted throngs (nearly 100 people in a single square mile in some places, they said) know of cool mornings in early spring, with the mist draping the hillocks like a wedding hood, and not even the scampering of a _morrimil_ to disturb the silence – a silence so vast and immense that it seemed to have existed from the beginning of the world? Or of late autumn afternoons spent reclining beneath my Guide Tree, the _jamblyha_ that I called _Inmalfet_, which unlike the southern _therants_ and _quilfins_ did not go dormant in the later parts of the year, so that even on the last day of the Frost Month I could lie underneath it and bask in its silent, solemn affection? And all this had been given to me and me alone – as though I were the son of one of the ancient kings, and my father had set aside a chunk of his realm as my own private playground.

Not, of course, that I was the only young _vecol_ who was destined to spend his youth in the Selicar Refuge. The notion of a vast area where their offspring could grow up together was one that the parents of the other mutated Andalites found quite attractive, and many of them exerted all their efforts to secure a place there for their misbegotten sons or daughters. None of them were as well-connected as my grandfather, of course, and so for a number of months I had the Refuge to myself, but eventually there came a day in the early summer when I was summoned to the edge of the stream Nithra to meet the first of my new companions.

« Gar - a - tron, » said my father, in the slow, ponderous way that the healthy Andalites thought-spoke, « this is Li - milt - Zal - a - ran - He - ge - ti. He will be liv - ing in the Ref - uge with you from now on. »

I looked critically at the young male who was standing beneath a nearby _zimar_ tree, leaning against its trunk with an air of studied indifference to everything around him. The first thing I noticed about him was his size: I had thought that I represented the limit of Andalite dwarfism, but Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti was half a head again smaller than I was. Yet he bore himself with the pride of a war-prince, as though the grotesque deficiencies of his body were merely a temporary inconvenience, or an enchantment out of an old story. So must Prince Gamatol have looked when the Ellimists bound his soul to that of the _djabala_.

I decided that I liked this Limilt – but he was still intruding on my private sanctuary, and I felt obligated to make some _pro forma_ complaint. «Why does he have to live here?» I appealed to my mother. «Isn't there some other place where he could be away from the others?»

« This is the place that the Coun - cil has ap - poin - ted for all the mis - born ju - ve - niles, Gar - a - tron, » said my mother. « It is his as much as yours. Be - sides, sure - ly the Sel - i - car Ref - uge is big e - nough for both of you to live in with - out nick - ing each oth - er's tail - blades. »

I decided not to point out that we couldn't very well nick each other's tail-blades if neither of us had one. «Well, maybe,» I said, «but still, it just won't be the same if there's someone else here.»

«And, pray tell, how do you think I feel?» said Limilt suddenly. (He had heard this whole conversation, of course, since I was not yet at the age of mastering private thought-speak.) «Here my parents have been telling me for months that I will meet other youths of my own stature at this Selicar place, and then I get here and find no-one living here except this big galoot from the Island beyond the Warm Current.»

I turned and stared at him with my two good eyes. «What?»

«I mean, look at you,» said Limilt. «Just a big lump of undifferentiated muscle. I'll bet that when you cut your tail, it takes three days for the pain impulse to reach your brain.»

My first thought was that Limilt was mentally unhinged. Granted that I had five or six inches on him, I was still nowhere near being "a huge lump of undifferentiated muscle"; and the bit about my nerve impulses was absolutely ridiculous. Had his mutation somehow affected his mind – caused it to malform in the same way as his body, so that it exaggerated even the smallest difference into something absurd?

Then, suddenly, I realized. Limilt-_Zalaran_-Hegeti. _Zalaran_… Wasn't Mitubal-Zalaran-Ositak that famous poet who was always receiving accolades from the Artistic and Cultural Sub-Council? Limilt was probably her second child – which meant that he would have been raised with all the disciplines of the most _avant-garde_ modern artists, particularly…

«Humor,» I said. «That was humor, wasn't it?»

«It was supposed to be,» said Limilt. «Why, is that a problem for you?»

«No, no,» I said hastily. «It's just… well, I've heard of humor, of course, but I'd never actually met anyone who practiced it.»

«Ah,» said Limilt. «No, I don't suppose you would have. Living out on that island, with nothing but botanists and _kerrit_ vines within a thousand miles: you're probably as ignorant as a _lumib_ about nine-tenths of the achievements of modern culture.»

«How do you do it?» I said, ignoring the jibe. «Does it just come over you, like a fit, at odd intervals? Or do you actually have to train your mind to see everything as not quite what it is?»

Limilt laughed. «It's not as hard as you think, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,» he said. «In a way, it's just the logical reaction to being me – or you.»

I must have looked puzzled, for he continued. «The idea behind humor is that a sufficiently absurd viewpoint can render even the most poignant situations emotionally innocuous. They did tell you that much, at least?»

I nodded.

«Okay, then,» said Limilt. «Now, maybe you never felt this, since I don't suppose there are all that many juveniles on the Island beyond the Warm Current, but when a person grows up among the herds that graze the Ilarda, he has a lot of opportunities to notice what a freak he is relative to his peers – and he can either spend the rest of his life feeling miserable about that, or he can find a way to make it not seem so important to him.»

I frowned. «And that's why you took up humor?» It was a strange idea to me; I had never thought that the literary theories of Sufet-Ilganor-Ofeel could serve as a school of courage.

Limilt flicked his tail in an Andalite shrug. «My mother likes to say that a person's life is like a fable,» he said. «It can either bring pleasure or grief, depending on how the person tells it.» His eyes twinkled. «And I never much cared for tragic fables, myself.»

I laughed aloud. Yes, I definitely liked this Limilt.

* * *

And thus began what I still think of as the golden period of my youth. I introduced Limilt to every corner of the Refuge, from the till piles at the northeastern edge to the freshwater spring that fed the Nithra from the south, and it was as though I was discovering it myself all over again. And no sooner had he become a full native of the Selicar than we were called back to the southern boundary to meet Shisken-Atomal-Breecai, a regional governor's daughter whose eyes blazed like fire from her dome-shaped face, and the adventure began again with her as the novice and Limilt as my co-master. Then came Berel-Thorondor-Suparit, a quiet, enigmatic young male with no parents in particular – and after him a dozen other juveniles whose names I could never remember all at once, but all of whom looked up to me as a sort of Dean-Alpha of the Selicar Herd. Every so often, I would hear one of them refer to himself and his fellows as "the People of Garatron", and I would blush with embarrassment mingled with pride.

No, certainly I did not start out by hating the Selicar Refuge. I had to learn to do that – and I doubt I would ever have done so, had it not been for Kirinar.

* * *

**(2)**

_«You mean the dawn of man,» said Tobias. «Or the dawn of Andalite, or whatever.»_

_«No, "the dawn of time" is correct,» said Ax. «According to Andalite philosophy, time is a mode of existence that requires a sentient mind to perceive it, and therefore it did not exist before the first Andalites.»_

_«Oh.» Tobias sat for a long moment, digesting that. «Okay, then, go on.»_


	5. Parthenos

It was in the year 12327.9, on the first day of the Leaf Month. Shisken and Berel were out in the northern _brizanec_ groves, gathering fronds to weave into _iloner_ for the upcoming Utalen Meca festivities, and Limilt and I were walking along the Nithra's western tributary, debating the merits of a new technological innovation – something called a "book".

«I'm telling you, Garatron, it's the beginning of a revolution,» said Limilt. «The whole concept of information retrieval will have to be modified once it catches on.»

I smiled deprecatingly. «That seems a rather ambitious claim to make for a collection of plant-matter sheets with writing on them.»

«If you could look beyond your provincial prejudices in favor of mineral technology,» said Limilt austerely, «perhaps you would be able to see the justice in it. Work it out for yourself: if you want to retrieve some particular datum via computer, how long, on average, does it take you?»

I considered. «About five minutes, I would say.»

«Exactly,» said Limilt. «Whereas, if you have a book, all you have to do is turn to the appropriate page, and there it is. _Instantaneous retrieval_, Garatron: how can you say that isn't going to change the world?»

«Wait a moment,» I said. «How do you know which specific page to turn to? You said that an average book generally contains at least three hundred.»

Limilt waved a dismissive hand. «Of course, you have to be familiar with the plan of the book,» he said. «The same way you have to learn how to use a computer. The issue is, once you know the ins and outs of both devices, the superior efficiency of the book is simply overwhelming.»

«Maybe,» I said. «But what about capacity? You can't tell me that you can fit all the information on my grandfather's computer onto three hundred sheets of… of whatever you call that substance.»

«Paper, Garatron,» said Limilt. «It's called paper. And, no, of course you can't use a single book to substitute for a computer – but who said anything about restricting yourself to one book? The whole point is to have a collection of books: maybe fifty or sixty of them, all gleaming on the wall of your family scoop.»

I snorted. «Sounds like a racket to me,» I said. «And how are the manufacturers going to get permission to cut down all the trees that you'd need to make that much paper? I'm just guessing here, but I suspect that the Andalite people value their forests a little more than efficiency in information retrieval.»

«They don't need to cut down any trees,» said Limilt. «Do you know how many trees get blown down in the great forests during the winter storms? You could make a thousand books from the felled wood in the Shimarut alone.»

«Of course that's how it would start,» I said, «but how can you guarantee that it would stay that way? Once people developed an appetite for books, they would start demanding more than the winter storms could supply – and, once that happened, the sanctity of the forests wouldn't last much longer.»

A sad laugh sounded in our minds. «Yes,» said a gentle voice with a curiously alien quality about it. «Ancient reverence rarely stands a chance against modern innovation.»

We turned around, and saw a small female standing behind us, her hands folded in front of her as though she were attending a lecture. Considered as a Misborn, there was nothing especially striking about her: rounded face, fused eyestalks, missing tail-blade, the usual things. All the same, Limilt and I were both a little startled when we saw her; neither of us had expected to meet a Green Andalite in the Selicar Refuge.

The Green Andalites are a sort of sub-species of the Andalite race, found mostly on a large, isolated island in the Southern Ocean. Besides their color, there are a number of things that distinguish them from ordinary Andalites: their fur is shaggier, for instance, and their eyes are yellow instead of green, and their bodies tend to be more thickly built. (Their tail-blades are also straighter, but in this female's case that was scarcely an issue.) What really distinguishes them, though, is not precisely anything about their bodies, but something in their manner. They are, they say, the oldest of Andalite peoples – older even than the Voiceless People who lived when the ice-fields covered the Selicar Refuge – and they also say that, because of this, they have special privileges and responsibilities that ordinary Andalites do not share. Whether this is true or not, I do not know; certainly my grandfather did not think so. I had heard him assert numerous times that the Green Andalites themselves did not really believe their traditions of ancient favor – that it was merely a convenient excuse to avoid acknowledging the High Council's full authority over them. But now, looking at this young female, I wondered.

It was not that she was particularly beautiful. At the time, I don't think any of us Selicarites considered any of the others to be really beautiful (we were still too much under the influence of traditional Andalite standards), and, in any case, her Green-Andalite features were unlikely to have any great appeal for me. Nor was it exactly that she carried herself like the daughter of an ancient bloodline: she did not seem regal at all, but, on the contrary, distressed, uncertain, and a little afraid. Even in her fear, though, there was something strangely pure and noble, as though her soul was a gemstone and her fear only a discoloration within it. It was rather intimidating, and for a moment I stood motionless, uncertain of what to do next.

It was Limilt, of course, who rescued me. «Well, Garatron, what are you waiting for?» he whispered, giving me a gentle kick with his right hind hoof. «Go ahead and give her your little Welcome-to-the-Selicar-Refuge speech.»

Realizing the sense of this, I stepped forward and straightened my upper body, trying to project an air of venerable authority. «Hello,» I said. «I am Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, son of Hilanal-Sitek-Parshini and Ethalan-Povis-Tilagren; this is Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti, son of Korid-Ikumal-Allidor and Mitubal-Zalaran-Ositak. On behalf of this community of separated ones, we welcome you to the Selicar Refuge.»

«Thank you,» said the Green female.

I waited for a moment or two, but she said nothing more. At length I had to prompt her. «May I know your name?»

«I am Kirinar,» she said, and fell silent again.

Once more I had to prompt her. «Just "Kirinar"?»

She sighed. «The Mainlander governor assigned me the cognomens of "Olmit" and "Zapalresh",» she said. «You may address me by them if it makes you more comfortable.»

I winced. I had forgotten that tradition. The Green Andalites, from time immemorial, have used only single names; many of them believe that the "Mainland" Andalite government, by assigning them triple names for record purposes, subtly undermines their status as an Autonomous Culture. Whether Kirinar was one of these, I could not tell from her tone (not that I have ever been especially good at telling anything from anyone's tone), but I could certainly see that I had made a rather serious faux pas.

Nor did Limilt's distinct lack of sympathy help to mend matters. «Bravo, Garatron,» he said. «I knew I could rely on you to put the wrong hoof forward.»

Before I could reply, he had stepped forward and dipped his tail toward the new Selicarite. «Please excuse my companion, Kirinar,» he said. «He has little expertise in the art of social intercourse, but his hearts are in the right place.»

«I have no doubt of that,» said Kirinar. She glanced at me with a smile in her eyes, and I felt a sudden, uncomfortable tingling in my hooves.

«Tell me,» Limilt continued, «how does a daughter of Saprec come to be among the Misborn of Selicar? I was under the impression that our little club was only open to those whose parents lived along the Ilarda River.»

«At the time I was conceived, I was such,» said Kirinar. «My father is one of the elders overseeing our section of the Island, and, in the Topaz Year of the 30,977th Duodecade, he and my mother stayed for a time as the guests of Governor Bulennen-Atomal-Okari, who had been a great friend of the People during his term in office.»

Limilt cocked his head. «Governor Bulennen?» he said. «You mean Shisken's father?»

Kirinar's eyes lit up. «You know Shisken-Atomal-Breecai?» she said eagerly.

Limilt rolled his eyes. «Oh, yes,» he said. «Garatron and I have spent the past five years trying to keep her from killing herself on the Eastern Ridge.» **(3)**

«Wait a moment,» I said. «This Topaz Year of the 30,977th Duodecade – what would it be in our calendar?»

Kirinar hesitated, and I could see her _i__shimi__r_ – the triangular jewel that is bonded to every Green-Andalite female's left hand on her sixth day of life – flashing in the sunlight as she worked out the calculations on her fingers. «It would be 12316.4,» she said after a moment.

«Then you were among the earliest of the Misborn to be conceived?» I said.

«I was,» said Kirinar.

«Then how does it happen,» I said, «that you have only now come to the Selicar Refuge? If your father is an elder of your people, surely he could have arranged for you to have sanctuary here much sooner.»

I was unprepared for the reaction with which my question met. Kirinar's eyes narrowed sharply, and her face was darkened with something like rage (though not, I thought, at me). «I would prefer not to discuss that,» she said curtly, and the alien quality that I had noticed in her thought-speak seemed to have been distinctly heightened.

I took an involuntary step backwards. «Um… all right, then.»

«Thank you,» said Kirinar, and her expression softened again.

«Tell me,» she said, returning her attention to Limilt, «is Shisken still dwelling here? My parents returned to the Island before she was born, and I never had the chance to meet her. It would be pleasant to make her acquaintance.»

«She is here,» said Limilt. «About a half-hour's canter north-northeast of this spot, gathering _brizanec_ fronds with a rather dreamy-eyed male. I can take you to the place, if you wish…»

Kirinar waved a hand. «Thank you for the offer, Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti,» she said, «but I feel sure that I can find it on my own.»

«Naturally,» said Limilt, dipping his tail again. «Well, then, _urhen shamiku ne'tal_.»

Kirinar smiled at his use of the ancient Green-Andalite farewell blessing. «The same to you, Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti,» she said; then, turning to me, «And to you, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer.»

I muttered something awkwardly, and she turned and headed toward the _brizanec_ grove. She was a good canterer; in a few minutes she had reached the top of the nearby rise, and soon she had crossed over to the other side of it and vanished from our sight.

Limilt glanced at me, an impish smile in his eyes. «Well, Garatron?» he said. «What do you think of our new comrade from the Southernmost Island?»

I shrugged. «She seemed nice enough,» I said. «Though I wonder why she should have reacted so strongly to my question about her lateness in arriving here. It was almost as though I had poked my hoof into an open sore on her flank.»

«Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,» said Limilt. «If she didn't have inexplicable moods, she wouldn't be a female. Nature designed them that way on purpose, so that we would have a healthy amount of mystery in our lives.»

I had become familiar enough with Limilt's conversational style to know humor when I heard it, and I made the appropriate response. Despite what he said, though, there still seemed to me to be a mystery about Kirinar-Olmit-Zapalresh – and I determined to unravel it at the earliest possible opportunity.

* * *

**(3)**

_«That's not _our _years, is it?» said Tobias, with a twinkle in his eye._

_«No,» said Ax. «Five Andalite years. That would be, let me see... about 6.3 human years.»_

_«Gotcha,» said Tobias. «So Garatron and his friends are older than you've been making it sound?»_

_«Distinctly,» said Ax. «And bear in mind that Andalites mature rather faster than humans in the first place. The eldest Garatrons, by this point, are very close to legal adulthood.»_

_«Okay, thanks,» said Tobias. «That explains a lot.»_


	6. Tragedos

I did not see Kirinar again until late that evening, when Shisken and Berel brought her to the grassy ridge near the center of the Selicar Refuge. This was a special place, set aside for the four of us who had been Selicarites the longest – and now, it seemed, for Kirinar. Whether it was because of her age, or because her Green-Andalite lineage set her apart from the others, or simply because Shisken had found a kindred spirit in her, I did not know; but, whatever the reason, it was plain that the four Elders of Selicar had that afternoon become five.

I don't think any of us begrudged Kirinar this privilege. Certainly Shisken did not; even I, the instant I saw them together, could see that Kirinar had become dear to her in those few hours. Berel, too, seemed to find satisfaction in her company; perhaps the gentleness that was in her (alongside the Green-Andalite queenliness) accorded well with his own quiet and retiring nature. Even Limilt, who was usually a jealous guardian of his own prerogatives, accepted her presence without question – which was natural, when I thought about it. He was a child of the artistic caste, and artists and poets had always romanticized the Green Andalites; Kirinar, to him, was the Selicar's sole representative of the most ancient and mystical of peoples, and as such had every right to share our privileges.

As for myself, I minded perhaps less than anyone. There had, I felt, been four of us for too long; we were all starting to wear on one another. New blood, that was what we needed. Besides, with Kirinar dwelling on the ridge, I would have that much more of an opportunity to get to know her – and, perhaps, to find out why she was so opposed to speaking of the circumstances that brought her to the Refuge.

* * *

This latter opportunity, in fact, occurred far sooner than I had expected. At around midnight that night, I found myself suddenly awake and restless (as those of our breed are wont to do), and I left the scoop and wandered out into the small valley that lay at the foot of the ridge. It was a dark night – only the smallest two of the Andalite homeworld's four moons were visible – and, as a result, I didn't see Kirinar standing motionless in the field until my right foreleg had collided with her tail.

We yelped simultaneously, then began frantically apologizing to each other, and finally ended up laughing helplessly. «Oh, dear,» said Kirinar, shaking her head. «Here they told me that they were sending me to this place of solitude and isolation, and I find I can't even trace the Orniya Quest without someone tumbling over me.»

«The Orniya Quest?» I said. «What's that?»

«Oh, just something that my father once showed me,» said Kirinar. «The idea is that you go out on a two-moon night and pick out the first star you see: that represents King Orniya on the horn of the mountain. Then you recite the first stanza of the Questing Song, and with every word you pick a new star next to the one you just had; if you can make it back to your original star on the very last word, you've brought Orniya back to the mountaintop, and you can go on to the next...» She trailed off, and laughed at my expression. «You haven't a notion what I'm talking about, have you?»

«Not really,» I confessed. «It sounds quite complicated, though. Does everyone on the Southernmost Island occupy himself this way?»

«Oh, no,» said Kirinar. «Only a few members of the very oldest families, the ones from which elders are drawn. You see, it reinforces two skills that every good elder needs: the reciting helps you to memorize the historic epics, and the necessity of always coming back to your original star teaches you to distinguish between things that appear alike.»

I wondered how many Blue Andalites would think of those two things when asked what qualities were most important in a High-Council member. «So was that why your father taught it to you?» I said. «So that you could be an elder yourself, someday?»

Kirinar stared at me strangely for a moment without answering; then, to my utter astonishment, she turned violently away from me, covered her face with her hands, and began sobbing piteously.

At first, I was afraid I had insulted her. I hadn't realized, until I had actually asked the question, how much it sounded like a particularly tasteless example of Limilt's humor – for I had noticed that Limilt sometimes used his technique of deliberate absurdity not to gloss over, but to accentuate, a personal deficiency. _Mockery_, he called it.

I wanted to explain to Kirinar that I hadn't been mocking her at all – that I had genuinely thought, for a moment, that her fellow Green Andalites might have considered elevating her to a position of authority, her deformity notwithstanding – that there was something about her that had made me forget what she and I both were. I wanted to explain all this to her, but I couldn't find the words – so, instead, I reached forward awkwardly and placed my hand over her single vestigial eyestalk.

It was a feeble gesture, but it was the best that I could think of. I knew that, when I was feeling miserable and wanted to shut out the world, it always annoyed me that the eye in my deformed stalk wouldn't close, but kept sending its fuzzy, black-and-white images to my brain. Perhaps Kirinar was feeling the same way right now; if so, she might appreciate my action.

And I believe that she did: when she had emptied herself of tears and turned back to face me, there was an expression in her glistening golden eyes that suggested gratitude. All that she said, however, was, «Forgive me, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer. I had not realized, until you spoke, just how much my exile from the People had distressed me.»

I cocked my head. «Exile?» I repeated. «How are you in exile? You have committed no crime...»

«It would seem that I have,» said Kirinar, her voice bitter in my mind. «It would seem that my mere existence is a crime so far as the Mainland is concerned.»

I must have looked utterly baffled, for she sighed and stroked her _ishimir_ with her right forefinger. «But perhaps I should not be speaking this way to you,» she said. «You are happy in the Selicar; Shisken told me so this afternoon, and I have seen as much for myself since then. It is not my business to infect you with my own dissatisfactions...»

«To the contrary, Kirinar,» I said hastily. «Whatever you wish to say, I wish to hear. It would give me great unhappiness to think that some aspect of the Selicar was distressing one of its residents for reasons of which I knew nothing.»

Kirinar laughed as though I had said something amusing. «"Some aspect of the Selicar",» she repeated. «Your innocence is the stuff of legend, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer.»

Since I had no idea what she meant by this, I did not reply, but maintained an expectant silence. After a moment or two, she sighed and lashed her tail wearily. «Oh, very well,» she said. «Hear the story, for all the good it may do you.»

She took a few steps backward, folded her hands, and began to speak in a different, older-sounding voice, as though she were reciting an ancient poem. «There are many lands in this world, and many folk dwell therein,» she said. «Among one such people, who live upon a vast island near to the southern pole of the world, there was born a female child, the daughter of a great elder.»

This sudden snatch of saga bewildered me, and I am afraid that I allowed my bewilderment to turn to peevishness. «What are you doing?» I said. «Do you suppose I wish to hear of one of your Green-Andalite culture heroines? Why do you not tell me your own story?»

Kirinar seemed not to hear me. «This child was not as other children,» she said, «for there was a malign influence in her body that had misshapen her head and limbs. But the people of that island was a wise and understanding people, which knew that the shape of the body is of little importance next to the shape of the soul – and the sages of the island had assured the child's parents that her soul was even as their own. Thus it came about that, as the child grew, her mother cared for her as for a child properly grown, and her father trained her without hesitation in all the things that befitted an elder's daughter.»

I realized what she was doing, and my hooves tingled with shame. Why had I been such a boor? Surely, it would have done me no harm to let her tell her story in her own way – though it puzzled me that she should wish to tell it as though it were one of the epics of her people. (I had not yet learned that some stories are too painful to tell in the first person.)

«For nine years,» said Kirinar, «the child grew and throve, and knew all the joys and sorrows that childhood knows. But a greater sorrow awaited her – for there are indeed many lands in this world, and not all are as wise as the land of this child's birth.»

She was silent for a moment, then continued with a visible effort. «In the child's ninth year,» she said, «a ship came to the island from the lands across the sea, bearing with it a great prince of those lands. This prince was a servant of his nation's council of rulers, who had appointed him to bring the island people into conformity with their laws.»

«This would be the resident governor?» I said. «The one who gave you your secondary and tertiary names?»

Once again, Kirinar ignored me, but she gave me no reason to doubt my interpretation. «Most of these laws were just and ordinate,» she said, «as is the case with most laws that are not laid down by wicked men. Even those that suppressed ancient traditions were, for the most part, concerned with minor and secondary matters, and the people of the island endured them with patient tolerance. There was one law, however, about which they could not be so sanguine – for there were in those foreign lands children whose bodies had been malformed by the same malign influence that had affected the nine-year-old elder's daughter, and the rulers had commanded that such children should be sent to a lonely place in the far north, lest others be dismayed at the sight of them.

«The elder and his wife were astonished. They had spent many years in the lands across the sea, and they knew the people of those lands to be a good and noble race; surely they could not be so cruel as to separate a child from her family and her home, simply because her body was less comely than those of her peers? But when they spoke to the prince who represented the rulers, they were informed that that was precisely what the law required – and, furthermore, that dire consequences would follow if they did not obey.

«Late that night, under the light of three moons, the child's father and his fellow elders convened to discuss the matter. They were agreed that they could not sacrifice a daughter of the island race to the whims of barbarians; they also agreed that they were not strong enough to resist them by force of tail. They concluded that the only recourse was for the child and her mother to flee to the great caves on the southern side of the island: no-one but a native islander could follow after them, and there was a subterranean pool at the center of the caves where enough rock-grass grew to keep them alive for perhaps five months. In the meantime, the elders would foment unrest among the people of the island, in an effort to discredit the prince; if fortune favored, the foreign rulers would take him away and replace him with another representative, who might look more leniently on a parent's love for a deformed child.

«All the arrangements were made, and, when the sun went down on the following day, the child and her mother fled into the forests. For five hours they ran through brush and briar, allowing neither their weariness nor their fear to sap their strength, and, as the fifth planet rose to the top of the celestial globe, they arrived at the mouth of the principal cave.

«But a cruel surprise awaited them there, for a certain elder, a rival of the child's father, had seen in the affair of the child a means of deposing his hated adversary, and had betrayed them to the prince in exchange for official favor and protection. When the child and her mother arrived at the cave mouth, therefore, they were met by a phalanx of foreign warriors, who subdued them and took them to the prince; the prince informed the child's mother that she would stand trial with her husband for rebellion against the foreign government, and ordered that the child be sent to the northern land of isolation as soon as the sun rose.

«And so now the child dwells alone in the Selicar Refuge, ten thousand miles from the land of her birth, and longs for parents who may no longer be alive, for hills and valleys she will never see again, and for a way of life that she fears may be perishing from the earth.»

* * *

When Kirinar had finished her story, I could not immediately respond. In somewhat less than fifteen minutes, this young Green-Andalite female had taken everything I had thought I knew and turned it upside down – had made me see the Refuge in which all my happiest years had been spent as a wall-less prison, and the political achievement of which my grandfather had always been proudest as an act of unconscionable tyranny.

«Is... is this story true?» I said at last.

A faint smile twinkled in Kirinar's eyes. «All stories are true, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,» she said. «This one even happened.»

«We must do something,» I said. «So great an injustice cannot go unrepaired; we must...»

Kirinar shook her head. «No, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,» she said, «there is no reparation for me. Your High Council has decreed that this is my fate, and the wishes of a few dozen _vecols_ – as I believe the word is – will not make them change their decree.»

«But the wishes of Nimavar-Povis-Alkati will,» I said earnestly. «He often comes to the Selicar to learn how we are faring, and he is bound by the ties of blood to attend to my concerns. If I tell him your story, and ask him to address your plight at the next meeting of the Council...»

Kirinar sighed. «Garatron, you do not understand,» she said. «I know of your grandfather; the Selicar Refuge is his pride and joy, and he has no love for my people and our ways. You will not be able to persuade him to exalt the latter at the expense of the former.»

«You cannot know that, Kirinar,» I said. «You may know _of_ my grandfather, but you do not _know_ him. However proud and insular he may be, he is not deaf to the voice of justice – nor to that of young females in distress.»

I was unsure why I had added that last statement. To be sure, my grandfather was generally gallant towards young females (as most male Andalites are who have had a daughter and no sons), but I felt sure that he would have been no less aggrieved at the abduction of a young male. The fact that Kirinar was female, therefore, had no real relevance to the discussion – yet, somehow, I had felt compelled to mention it.

Kirinar lowered her main eyes and stroked her _ishimir_ again. «I see that this is quite important to you,» she said in a strange tone. «Very well, then. The next time you see your grandfather, make your petition on my behalf – but be assured that I will think no less of you if you fail.»

And she turned back toward the ridge and galloped away into the darkness of the two-moon night, leaving me to wonder what she had meant by her parting words.


	7. Skandalon

It was perhaps two weeks after this that my grandfather came to the Selicar Refuge on one of his regular visits. This had been a stipulation of several of our parents (Shisken's, for one) before they would entrust their children to the Refuge: they disliked the notion of children growing up without any adult contact, and they had demanded that some mature Andalite be placed in the Refuge to instruct us and watch over us.

Of course, having a healthy Andalite reside permanently in the Selicar would have defeated the whole purpose of the Refuge, but Grandfather had tried to address the parents' concerns nonetheless: he had arranged for an elderly _vecol_, an albino male with a congenital lameness in his right forehoof, to dwell in a small scoop near the eastern edge of the Refuge, and he had agreed to make a special trip to the Refuge himself every time the second moon of the Andalite homeworld completed its cycle of phases. The idea, I believe, was that the albino _vecol_ (whose name I have forgotten) would serve as a quasi-parental figure to us children of the Selicar, and that Grandfather himself would solve any disputes between us that the albino was unable to handle alone.

Needless to say, this did not work out as planned. In practice, nearly all of the disputes between Selicarites were resolved by appealing to me (or, if I was otherwise occupied, to Limilt, Shisken, or Berel), and, as for the albino becoming a surrogate father, I have never met anyone less qualified or likely to do so. He himself, of course, had been isolated since birth in accordance with Andalite custom, and had never felt the sanitizing influence of a herd; as a result, his mental stability had been dangerously undermined, so that one sometimes got the impression, when speaking to him, of a mind held together by thin threads of _chikinee_ fiber. He never raised his tail to us in discipline; indeed, I rather got the impression that he was afraid of us, particularly after he learned how much swifter we were than he. (Not, of course, that we were as swift then as we later became, but the slowest of us could easily outrun a hobbling old Andalite even then.) We, in our turn, treated him with sublime contempt, frequently forgetting that he existed for weeks on end – and, as for Grandfather, we did value his visits, but not for the reason he intended. To us, Nimavar-Povis-Alkati was like an ambassador from another world, and we treasured his tales of the world beyond the Refuge the way we might now treasure a visit from a Skrit Na freighter.

On the morning in question, however, my interest in meeting with Grandfather was unconnected to any interest in the folkways of the Broad Southern Valley. Despite Kirinar's doubts, I still believed that my grandfather would be unable to resist my appeal – that no-one, not even a High Andalite Council member, could be so blind to the demands of justice as to condemn a young female to exile for a fault in no way hers. (It will be remembered that I was very young.)

Grandfather lowered his eyestalks to me as I came up to him. « Gree - tings, Gar - a - tron, » he said. « You have grown much since I saw you last. »

«I have,» I said. «And I have learned much, as well.»

« Have you, now? » said Grandfather, indulgently. « And what is it that you have learned? »

«I have learned that scientists in the Eastern Woodlands have developed a radical new medium of information storage,» I said. «I have learned that tracing patterns in the stars can inculcate discernment in one who aspires to wield authority. And I have learned that the Selicar Refuge is not a proper home for everyone.»

Grandfather's eyes abruptly left mine, and fixed themselves on a point on the far horizon. « Yes, I have al - so heard of Scho - lar Ru - mil's in - ven - tion, » he said. « The Coun - cil has al - rea - dy gran - ted her the funds to con - struct some three hun - dred of her "books". »

«Grandfather,» I said, «there is a young female who came to the Refuge a fortnight ago...»

« Yes, Gar - a - tron, I know, » said my grandfather sternly. « I have dis - cussed the plight of Kir - i - nar - Ol - mit - Za - pal - resh with both Go - ver - nor Hai - thul and Coun - cil Head Ur - li - po. None of us are pleased with it, but there is, un - der the cir - cum - stan - ces, no al - ter - na - tive. »

«No alternative?» I repeated. «She has a home on the Southernmost Island. She is a member of a culture that does not object to her deformity. How can the Selicar Refuge be her only option?»

Grandfather sighed. « The mat - ter is not so sim - ple as that, Gar - a - tron, » he said. « When Kir - i - nar - Ol - mit - Za - pal - resh - 's pa - rents de - fied the Coun - cil to keep her with them, she be - came a sym - bol of 'Main - land op - pres - sion' to those Green An - da - lites ea - ger for so - cial up - hea - val. They call her a pri - so - ner in a nor - thern wil - der - ness; they de - mand that we re - turn her to the Is - land, and threat - en vi - o - lence if we do not com - ply. If we were to send Kir - i - nar back to her home - land, it would be tan - ta - mount to ad - mit - ting that these a - gi - ta - tors had been jus - ti - fied in their grie - van - ces – and that might well spell the end of Con - cil - i - ar au - thor - i - ty on the South - ern - most Is - land. »

If he had been able to speak at an ordinary pace, I might have had more patience with this explanation. It is difficult, to someone who has never spoken to an Andalite, to describe just how ponderous and laborious their thought-speak is, and how grating it was to a passionate youth to have to listen to a lecture on the state of Andalite-homeworld politics delivered in that plodding drone. Had it not been for the strictness of Andalite propriety (which dictates that a juvenile must never interrupt when an adult is speaking), I would have broken in impatiently at half a dozen points; as it was, when Grandfather finally finished his exposition, there were so many things I wanted to say that I ended up picking the rashest and most ill-calculated of them. «And what good has Conciliar authority ever done the Southernmost Island?» I said. «Our legacy to them, if Kirinar speaks truly, appears to have been principally one of petty tyranny, rising on occasion to injustice that Kawafim-Ursel-Zikorr would have been ashamed to have perpetrated. Under such circumstances, perhaps it might be as well if the Council were to leave the Green Andalites to their own devices.»

Grandfather's face darkened dangerously. « Gar - a - tron, » he said, « my thought - speak re - cep - tors are not what they used to be, and it is pos - si - ble that what I just heard was not pre - cise - ly what you meant to say. Would you care to re - peat your state - ment? »

This, of course, was his delicate way of telling me that I had passed the bounds of decency, and it was time for me to be silent. I knew this perfectly well, but I was in the grip of a passion that blinded me to all hazards. «I believe you heard me perfectly well, Grandfather,» I said. «If letting the agitators have their way with the Southernmost Island is the price to be paid for rectifying the injustice done to Kirinar, then so be it. The Council has only itself to blame if its crime has had consequences beyond...»

Grandfather's tail lashed out like a sudden wind on the Eastern Ridge. Before I could move, the edge of his blade grazed against my thigh, scraping off just enough of the skin to draw blood. I cried out sharply, and fell silent.

It was not the pain that I objected to. Like any good form of corporal punishment, the Andalite _shurieta_ causes no more pain than its instructive purpose requires – and, since it is used principally on disobedient juveniles, that requirement is slight. To my pride, however, the wound was deep – for I was unused to being treated like a disobedient juvenile, least of all when I was envisioning myself as the fearless defender of a young female's rights.

My grandfather gazed silently upon me for a minute or two while I nursed my wounded hoof; then, softly, he said, « Do you un - der - stand, Gar - a - tron, why I have done this? »

I considered. The last thing I had said had been something about the High Council being guilty of a crime – which, since Grandfather himself was a Council member, amounted to calling my mother's father a criminal to his face. Yes, I could see how that might merit chastisement.

«Yes, Grandfather,» I said. «I apologize. I had no intention of disrespecting you.»

« No, » said Grandfather. « You were moved by pi - ty, not by in - so - lence. For the first time in your life, you have seen that jus - tice is not al - ways u - ni - ver - sal – that the du - ty of one per - son may cause great grief to a - no - ther – and, na - tu - ral - ly, you re - fuse to ac - cept this. At your age, in your si - tu - a - tion, I would doubt - less have done the same. »

There was just enough sympathy in his tone to inspire me to one more attempt. «Grandfather, is there nothing you can do for Kirinar?» I said. «Might there not be some obscure law, some all-but-forgotten treaty, by which she might be restored to her family without impinging on the Council's honor?»

« There is no - thing I can do, Gar - a - tron, » said my grandfather. « In an - y e - vent, the fam - i - ly that we re - stored her to would scarce - ly be the one she re - mem - bers. »

I glanced uneasily at him. «What do you mean?»

« Has Kir - i - nar not told you how Go - ver - nor Hai - thul brought char - ges of trea - son a - gainst her pa - rents? »

My eyes widened. «You mean... they have been executed?»

« Not pre - cise - ly, » said Grandfather. « When it be - came clear that the judg - es would de - clare them guil - ty, Lan - farr - Ol - mit - Ha - ti - ni and Me - qua - quil - li - Lis - me - Ak - ka - ras e - lect - ed to throw them - selves on their own tail - blades ra - ther than un - der - go the in - dig - ni - ty of dy - ing at the tails of 'Main - land - ers'. The dis - tinc - tion will no doubt gra - ti - fy young Kir - i - nar, but it will not make it an - y ea - si - er to re - turn her to her pa - rents' arms. » He knelt down on one foreknee, and gazed tenderly into my eyes. « I am sor - ry, Gar - a - tron. »

My hearts were too full for me to answer, and presently Grandfather rose and turned his stalk eyes toward the horizon. « Where is Shis - ken? » he inquired. « I have a mess - age for her from her fa - ther. »

I gestured dumbly with my tail, and Grandfather cantered away toward the ridge. I set my own face to the south, and limped perhaps a mile to the grove of _jamblyhas_ where _Inmalfet_ stood; there I knelt down, pressed my face against its bark, and buried my sorrows amid the pulse of its vegetable mind.

* * *

Perhaps I spent an hour there; perhaps more. I didn't keep track, and _Inmalfet_ could not tell time. All I know is that, after a considerable time had passed, I was roused from my dismal meditations by the sound of Kirinar's voice. «There you are, Garatron,» she said. «Limilt told me I might find you here. Your grandfather has gone, and Berel...»

She broke off as she caught sight of my ankle, and uttered a little cry. «Garatron, you are hurt!» she said, her voice quickening with concern.

«It is nothing,» I said, rising unsteadily to my hooves. «It will be healed by sundown. Such wounds are not meant to be lasting.»

Kirinar's eyes narrowed, and she reached out to touch my face. «And you have been crying,» she said. «Garatron, what...»

I grabbed her hand before it could reach my eye socket. I did not think I could bear the touch of her fingers against my face, innocent as it might have been.

«I will get you home, Kirinar,» I said fiercely. «Someday, somehow, I will get you home.»


	8. Synodos

That night, the five of us held a council on the ridge. I related Kirinar's story to Limilt, Shisken, and Berel (feeling that Kirinar would not want to tell it again herself), as well as the circumstances of my grandfather's refusal to come to her aid. As I spoke, I watched their faces: Shisken, visibly and passionately outraged; Limilt, thoughtfully and judiciously weighing each fact as it came; Berel, his feelings as much a mystery to me as they had ever been.

«So there you have it,» I said at last. «On the one hand, an evident necessity of justice; on the other, an insoluble political dilemma. If any of you know what ought to be done, I would be glad if you would enlighten me.»

«We could capture your grandfather during his next visit and hold him prisoner in the Refuge until the Council agreed to Kirinar's return,» Shisken suggested.

Limilt groaned. «Someday, Shisken-Atomal-Breecai,» he said, «I would like to open your mind up to sight-seers and charge admission. I think people would pay handsomely to sojourn in such a serenely uncomplicated world.»

«What is that supposed to mean?» demanded Shisken, who had never grown fully accustomed to Limilt's humor.

«It means that you have once again failed to grasp the essence of a situation,» said Limilt. «This is not fundamentally a conflict between Garatron and his grandfather, nor between the Southernmost Island and the High Council. It is a conflict between two different ideas of what constitutes right and wrong.»

«How do you mean?» I said.

«Look at it for yourself,» said Limilt. «You and your grandfather do not disagree on any matter of fact. Your grandfather agrees with you that Governor Haithul's action toward Kirinar and her parents was badly mistaken, and you acknowledge that he may well be right in thinking that rectifying the mistake would cause civil chaos – and yet you are determined that Kirinar should return to the Island, while he is equally determined that she should remain here. Surely, it ought to be obvious that the difference between you is a philosophical one.»

«But... but how can two people disagree about the meaning of right and wrong?» I said. «I thought that was something that everyone was born knowing.»

«Oh, of course,» said Limilt. «Innate knowledge of the Moral Law is one of the few things that separate Andalites from their _thulicel_ forebears. Unfortunately, however, there are a great many parts to the Moral Law, and it is quite easy for a person to select one of them that he particularly likes and say, "This, and this alone, is the good."»

«Oh.» I felt stung, as though I had been reproved. «And this is what you believe me to have done, then?»

«You?» Limilt seemed surprised. «Certainly not. Your position – that wrongs, when they have been committed, must be righted, and that any merely social strife that results from this is simply one of the consequences of the original wrong – is perfectly consonant with the Moral Law considered as a unity. It is your grandfather who, in his zeal for preserving the public peace, has come to forget that social tranquility is not the only, or even the greatest, good.»

His words gratified and relieved me, but I found myself discomfited by the rather condescending manner in which he said them. A nine-year-old _vecol_, I felt, ought not to speak so of an Andalite of my grandfather's age, however valid his arguments with him. But I kept silent, not wishing to undermine my own position by disputing with my supporter.

It was Kirinar, surprisingly enough, who voiced my thoughts. «You speak well, Limilt-Zalaran-Hegeti,» she said. «And you speak truly: to know right from wrong is indeed fundamental to any sentient being. I think, though, that the Law of Nature must be different on the Mainland than it is in my country. On the Southernmost Island, we think it very wrong for a youth to speak without respect of an elder of the people.»

I hadn't thought it was possible for Limilt to look abashed, but at Kirinar's rebuke he managed a passable approximation. Shisken, however, sprang to his defense – which, given the historic friction between the two of them, was perhaps even more surprising than Kirinar defending my grandfather. «I see no wrong in Limilt's sentiments, Kirinar,» she said. «He merely noted what he believed to be an error in Master Nimavar's thinking. Surely, such an observation may be made about anyone by anyone, regardless of the difference between their stations.»

«Of course,» said Kirinar, a bit impatiently, «but one can refute an idea without dismissing him who holds it. Master Nimavar, besides being your unofficial leader's grandfather, is an important functionary in your Mainland government; those who are part of Mainland culture owe him a certain measure of honor.»

At this, Berel raised his head, and spoke for the first time since he had arrived on the ridge. «But are we part of "Mainland culture"?» he said, and his tone, though it was as mild as always, sent a strange shiver down my spine.

Perhaps I was not the only one, or perhaps no-one else could think of a reply. In any case, none of us responded to him, and after a moment's silence he continued, «We are told that our dignity depends on our being kept from other Andalites. We are brought to this place in the remote wilds of the Northern Continent, where no Andalite save Master Nimavar and some of his fellow scientists ever go. We are invited to create our own community, apart from the rest of the Andalite race. In what sense can we be said to be residents of the Planetary Republic? In what sense, save the merely biological, can we even be said to be Andalites?»

I have said that I had never truly known what went on in Berel's mind, and indeed this may have been my first real glimpse of the soul behind those vague, unfocused eyes. It was a glimpse that shook me to the core; I had never dreamed that, among the quiet forests and the gently rolling land of the Selicar Refuge, such thoughts were stirring in a mutant youth's mind.

I glanced out the corner of my eye at the others. Kirinar looked greatly distressed, as though she had neither expected nor wished anyone to respond thus to her comment, while Limilt seemed, perhaps for the first time in his life, to be utterly at a loss for words. It was Shisken's response, though, that surprised me. The fire-souled governor's daughter, whose every action from her cradle had been fierce and impulsive, stepped gently toward Berel, took his hand in hers, and adopted the unmistakable facial expression of one whispering soothing nothings in private thought-speak.

I was mildly thunderstruck. I knew, of course, that Shisken and Berel had been close friends for some time (since Limilt and I had already formed a unique bond before Shisken arrived, it was natural that the other two unofficial Elders should likewise gravitate towards each other), but this went beyond the commiseration of a friend. Shisken resembled nothing so much as a mother consoling her only child, or at least an elder sister tendering a younger brother; indeed, for one wild moment I wondered whether the two of them had somehow learned that they were twin siblings separated at birth.

This impression lasted perhaps thirty seconds, until Limilt replaced it with an even stranger one. «Well, well,» he said jauntily in private thought-speak, his natural aplomb recovered, «so Berel-Thorondor-Suparit has discovered the flint that ignites Shisken-Atomal-Breecai's hearts. How heartening to know that all that time spent together in the _brizanec_ grove was not being wasted.»

I blinked. «You think that Shisken is in love with Berel?»

«It is not a question of _thinking_,» said Limilt. «My mother was a poet – one who specialized in short lyrics describing the manifold subtleties of male-female interaction. If I know nothing else, I know what romantic affection looks like.»

I could scarcely dispute this, and yet I found myself hoping he was in error. Romantic affection, to me, meant marriage first of all – and marriage meant offspring. What sort of offspring might be engendered through the union of the reckless, violent Shisken with the brooding Berel, I could not say, but I found it difficult to imagine that a world containing such people would be an entirely safe one to live in.

I consoled myself, however, with the reflection that perhaps the affection only went one way. Shisken's being in love with Berel did not necessarily mean that Berel was in love with Shisken – and, indeed, I found it difficult to believe that he could be. Certainly I could not imagine falling in love with Shisken-Atomal-Breecai: she was too wild, too volatile, to be a true companion of one's quiet hours. If I were to love a female, I thought, it would have to be one with a fundamentally gentle spirit – one who, though she might well have intense passions, had also the self-mastery to let them serve her rather than overcome her – one...

«All right, Berel-Thorondor-Suparit,» said Kirinar. «Suppose we grant that the four of you (I exclude myself, since I was not rejected by my people in the way you describe) are not truly Andalites in any meaningful sense. What follows from that?»

Berel released Shisken's hand and turned to Kirinar with an expression of weariness, as though he had used up all his energy in disclaiming kinship with Andal. **(4)** «I wish I could say, Kirinar,» he said. «I have asked that question of myself many times, and have found no answer. I merely offer the observation, for whatever it may be worth.»

«It seems to me to be worth a great deal,» said Shisken. «If we are members of the Andalite race, we are obligated to submit ourselves to that race's duly appointed rulers. On the other hand, if we are truly non-Andalite aliens, we are no more bound by the Council's judgments than an Ellimist or a _kafit_ bird would be – and, accordingly, we must be guided in our actions by our own ideas of right and wrong, without reference to their decisions.»

«By which you mean, I suppose,» I said, «that we must find a way to take Kirinar home.»

«Exactly.»

«But is that really possible?» I did not like to say it, but I had to face the facts of the matter. «Even if we had the means to take her to the Southernmost Island, Governor Haithul would simply order her sent back again – unless, of course, he should choose to...» I paused a moment to gather my courage «...to make an example of her as he did with her parents.»

Shisken looked at me with an expression halfway between amusement and pity. «Of course we cannot take her to the Southernmost Island,» she said. «Nor did I say we ought to. I said that we ought to take her home.»

«What is her home, if it is not the Southernmost Island?» I demanded. «You surely are not suggesting that we merely attempt to make her feel at home in the Selicar Refuge?» Then another thought struck me, and a cold chill went down my spine. «Or do you mean... you cannot mean that we must send her to her _final_ home?»

Shisken laughed aloud. «Set your mind at ease, Garatron,» she said. «I mean nothing of the sort.»

«What, then?»

Shisken smiled quietly. «Do you remember the message that your grandfather said he had from my father?» she said. «Three nights from tonight, come with me to the great hill at the Refuge's western boundary. There you will see what I mean.»

This seemed to be all that she was willing to say. It meant nothing to me, but I was forced to be content.

«Very well, then,» I said. «Let us return to the communal scoop. I thank you all for your thoughts; hopefully, in time, they will bear the fruit we seek.»

«I believe they will,» said Shisken.

* * *

**(4)**

_«Who's Andal?» Tobias asked._

_Ax sighed. «According to tradition,» he said, «all Andalites – or all Blue Andalites, at any rate – are descended from the same male of the Voiceless Race, who was given the power of thought-speak by the Great Powers that rule the universe. This male called himself Andal; the Andalite race takes its name from him.»_

_«Oh,» said Tobias. «Sort of like Adam, then.»_

_«Sort of like whom?»_

_«Um... never mind,» said Tobias. «Just go on with the story.»_


	9. Asteres

Needless to say, I rested very little for the next three days. Even had I not tended, of myself, to think incessantly of Shisken's promised revelation, it would have been forced on my thoughts by the questions of the other Selicarites. It is difficult to keep a secret in a small colony of inquisitive juveniles, and I rather doubt that Shisken and Berel (or, for that matter, Limilt) were trying particularly hard. By the morning after our conference on the ridge, every youth in the Refuge seemed to know that some tremendous event was expected in three days' time – and they all wanted me to tell them what it was. They seemed quite unable to believe that I did not know; indeed, one young female named Nannashee-Kopimil-Algoit said to me, with every appearance of seriousness, «But you are the Master of Selicar. There is nothing that you do not know.»

Such confidence in my wisdom was gratifying, but I could not share it. I knew there were many things of which I was ignorant – including some things that I longed desperately to know. What was this "home" that Shisken proposed to take Kirinar to? How could it substitute for the home she had lost? And how, in any event, could she be taken to it when all the powers of the Andalite government were arrayed to keep her imprisoned in the Selicar Refuge?

For the Selicar was a prison. I saw that now. No matter that it spanned a thousand square miles; no matter that there were no guards patrolling its borders. It was a place of confinement for those who could not be permitted to walk among Andalites. That made it a prison.

This distressed me greatly. The Selicar was the only home I had ever known; if it were in truth a thing noxious to the sentient spirit, then I was as much a homeless refugee as Kirinar was. I mentioned this to her at one point during the second day of waiting, and she merely smiled and said, «Well, then, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, perhaps Shisken's secret home may be yours as well as mine.»

This, of course, only made me desire the more fervently to see what Shisken had planned. I slept not at all on the second night, and, during the third day, my humors were so agitated that even the sound of a _morrimil_ running past was enough to set my hearts racing. Had Shisken made me wait a fourth day, I believe I might have gone mad.

As it was, I bolted for the western hill as soon as the sun had set, and traversed a full third of the Selicar's length in a mere quarter of an hour – which, though it seems a small matter to me now, was at that time quite an achievement for me. When I reached the hill, I was breathing heavily, and my fur was in great disarray – which greatly amused Shisken, who was leaning against a _towreath_ tree at the foot of the hill. «Well, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer,» she said, «has a _sharbat_ been chasing you, or were you simply afraid that I would forget about our meeting and go off to practice the Orniya Quest with Kirinar?»

«What is it you wished to show me?» I said, ignoring her badinage.

«Oh, it has not arrived yet,» said Shisken blithely. «Come, and let us contemplate the universe while we wait.»

Accordingly, we ascended the hill (not an arduous task, despite its height) and looked upon the night sky from as near as a Selicarite could come. The Great Moon had risen for the first time that month, but two other moons had set in the meantime, so the carpet of stars that Andalite poets have so often praised was visible to us in all its splendor. The two of us gazed up into infinity, and a million remote suns gazed back at us.

«I used to dislike two-moon nights,» Shisken commented quietly. «One feels so small against the universe, and I have never liked feeling small.» There was irony in her tone, and the two of us exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.

«But I don't seem to mind tonight,» she said. «Tonight it makes me think, not of my own smallness, but of the smallness of everything. Your grandfather is small. Governor Haithul is small. The Selicar Refuge, the Southernmost Island, the Planetary Republic: they are all small on a two-moon night.»

I shifted my hooves uneasily. «Shisken,» I said, «if you mean to console me with the insignificance of my troubles, I fear you will have little success. The injustice of Kirinar's predicament may be of no interest to the _Kafit_'s-Eye Nebula, but it is none the less significant to me for all that.»

I had feared that I might offend her by speaking thus, but she took no umbrage at my words. To the contrary, she laughed. «Ah, Garatron,» she said. «It seems we are fated never to understand each other.»

«What will you?» said a new voice. «He is the child of scientists. Your thoughts are too subtle for his direct, factual mind.» I turned around and saw Berel standing behind us, his eyes aglow with an excitement that I had never seen in them before.

I frowned. «Is Berel also to be shown your secret tonight, Shisken?»

«Berel already knows,» she said. «He was with me when your grandfather relayed my father's message; since the council of three nights ago, we have discussed the subject at length.»

«I see,» I said. «And what is your opinion, Berel-Thorondor-Suparit? Will what I am about to see solve Kirinar's dilemma?»

Berel smiled strangely. «Is Kirinar truly the one who has the dilemma, Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer?» he said.

I sighed. «Berel, please do not be coy with me,» I said. «Will Shisken's secret provide a means of freeing Kirinar from her exile?»

Berel considered. «Let us say that it will provide the opportunity,» he said. «Securing the means, I think, will be your task.»

And, having delivered himself of that enigmatic pronouncement, he turned the conversation to other subjects, drifting aimlessly from the beauty of the Kneeling Widow constellation to the concern of a certain Selicarite for her sickly twin sister, and from there to a speculation on the ritual infanticide of the Voiceless People. I listened to him without real interest for perhaps twenty minutes, until I felt Shisken touch my arm. «Garatron,» she whispered, her thought-speak tense with sudden, subdued excitement, «turn your eyes to the northeast.»

I did so, and saw a speck of light rising into the sky somewhere beyond the river Kra. It seemed to be perhaps a thousand miles off, and I was surprised I could discern its purple gleam so clearly. I said as much, and asked whether it was some sort of weapon.

«No,» said Shisken. «It is the vessel through which Falkrith-Ispadagar-Konin and two of his associates will travel into low homeworld orbit. From a technical standpoint, there is no reason for it to bear a million-candela beacon – but Scholar Falkrith has attached one to it anyway, for he wishes all the Northern Continent to observe his journey tonight.»

«Falkrith?» I said. «That is the scientist who...» I hesitated.

«Who made us what we are,» said Shisken. «Yes. Now hush, Garatron, and observe.»

So the three of us watched the purple light climb slowly into the sky until it was perhaps a finger's width above the horizon, just below the rear hoof of the Kneeling Widow. Then its ascent ceased, and it hovered motionless in the sky for perhaps half a minute – and then, to my bewilderment, it vanished completely. There was no flicker, no apparent movement; it simply ceased to exist.

I turned to Shisken, my eyes wide. «Did something go wrong?» I said.

«Nothing whatsoever,» said Shisken with a smile.

«But then...»

«Look into the _Furlet_'s eye, Garatron.»

Baffled, I turned my gaze to the constellation she had named (which necessitated a rather uncomfortable craning of my neck, for the _Furlet_, at that time of year, was very nearly directly above the Selicar Refuge), and saw a violet light gleaming to the right of the star Hallameth. It couldn't, of course, be what I thought it was; there was no way for a vessel to travel such a distance in the blink of an eye – but, all the same, it certainly seemed...

I turned to Shisken, and she answered the question before I asked it. «Yes,» she said. «That is Scholar Falkrith's vessel.»

«But how...» I began – and then I realized. «Z-space?»

«Precisely,» said Berel. «Tonight, for the first time in history, an Andalite has traveled through the singularity in the universal cone.» He looked at me, and added, «Falkrith's experiments began with the creation of a distorted sub-race that belonged nowhere on this world. It has now ended by making all the other worlds in the galaxy accessible.»

With a sudden shock, I saw what he meant – but it was too much to take in all at once. Yet Shisken and Berel both looked at me as though they expected me to pass some judgment on what we had just seen.

«This has been a solemn night, then,» I managed at last. «And the morning, when it comes, will be a solemn one as well: the first morning of a new age. Let us return to our scoop, and prepare to greet it with all the energy and clearness of mind that such an event merits – for I suspect that it will merit all that we can give.»

Shisken's eyes flashed with amusement at my rather obvious evasion, but Berel seemed to think that I had spoken great wisdom. «It will, indeed,» he said.

As we descended the hill, I raised my eyes and cast another look at the panorama of stars. Might our destiny indeed lie beneath one of them? And, if so, what sort of destiny was it liable to be?


	10. Anagke

Limilt and Kirinar were, of course, informed of the great secret as soon as they woke the next morning. The reactions of both were similar: at first, their eyes lit up with wonder and fierce joy; then, upon reflection, their faces became troubled, and, when they spoke, it was to express their doubts about the plan.

The joy surprised me in neither case. Limilt was a poet's son, and the notion of dwelling among the stars is almost the essence of poetry embodied. As for Kirinar, I had no need to learn about the Orniya Quest to know in what mystic regard Green Andalites held the stars. The Andalites of the Mainland form their constellations (with a few exceptions, such as the Kneeling Widow) into shapes taken from nature – animals, plants, and features of landscapes; on the Southernmost Island, in contrast, they have peopled the night sky with the figures of great heroes, whom they say the Bodiless Powers have placed there as a reward for their magnificent virtues. To tread the plains where such mighty ones dwell could not but be an enticing prospect to a young elder's daughter.

Their doubts were another matter. Kirinar was the first to speak. «This is a great thing you tell us, Shisken,» she said, «but I fail to see how it solves my difficulty. Do you suggest that, somewhere among the stars, there is a replica of the Southernmost Island that the Mainland has never conquered?»

«Who can say what lies among the stars?» said Shisken. «The point is that something must – and, whatever it is, it is more truly our country than anywhere on this world. Here, we are exiles and outcasts; there, we may be explorers and colonists.»

«But I have no wish to be an explorer or a colonist,» said Kirinar, with a slight quiver in her thought-speak. «The only place I wish to dwell is the country where I was born. How can Scholar Falkrith's vessel deliver that to me?»

It seemed that Shisken did not know the answer to that question. She fell silent and kicked at the ground with her hoof, as was her habit when frustrated by her own inarticulateness. I, however, hearing the distress in Kirinar's voice, could not restrain myself from speaking.

«Kirinar,» I said, «is there nothing, short of a restoration of your childhood's surroundings, that can bring you happiness?»

Kirinar turned to me, and I thought my hearts would break as her pain-filled eyes met mine. «How can I explain to you, Garatron?» she said. «The Southernmost Island is not merely a region; it is a promise. On my first birthday, I was bound to the soil of the Island in a ceremony I am not permitted to describe; from that day until the day of my exile, every breath I took was a covenantal act, deepening and strengthening my bond with the land of my ancestors. The grass, the trees, the rivers, the very stars in the sky, all served to remind me of what I was, and what was commanded of me.»

«But –» I began.

Kirinar raised her hand. «I know. You are going to tell me that there is nothing about the grass, rivers, and stars of the Southernmost Island that differs substantially from the grass, rivers, and stars of the Mainland. And I cannot explain, because I cannot cease to see the difference long enough to make you see it yourself.

«But look at this stone,» she continued, kneeling down and picking up a quartzite rock from off the ground. «To you, there is nothing special about it; it is merely one of many stones that litter the floor of the Selicar. But suppose you were told that your grandmother had received this stone as a wedding token; would you willingly let it be lost among the till piles?»

I considered that. «I see,» I said. «And the Southernmost Island is your own grandmother's wedding token; is that it?»

«The Southernmost Island is the setting of my people's history,» said Kirinar. «Even if I have been taken from it, I dare not abandon it, lest I abandon myself as well.»

«But, Kirinar,» Shisken broke in, «if we of the Selicar are, as Berel suggests, a people unto ourselves, then the worlds we discover will be the setting of our own history. Does that not at least partially compensate for having lost the Island?»

«I have addressed that already, Shisken,» said Kirinar wearily. «The four of you may be part of a separate, non-Andalite race. I am not. My people did not reject me; they were simply robbed of me.»

«It comes to the same thing,» said Shisken impatiently.

«No, Shisken, it does not,» said Kirinar. «I have not ceased to be one of the People. Therefore, I have not ceased to be an Andalite.»

«Perhaps not,» I said. «But you have become one of us.»

There was a moment's silence.

«Or am I too precipitous?» I said. «If so, forgive me. But I had hoped…»

I could not finish. What had I hoped? That Kirinar had, after all, found a home in the Selicar Refuge? That she had come to identify herself with a group of misborn Mainlanders to the extent that she would follow wherever they led? Or perhaps – _fool, Garatron, you utter, abysmal fool_ – that her destiny might be intertwined with mine, as the leaves of an _alaksha_? Better to absorb a poisonous _rucap_ nut than to say such things to her.

«I had hoped that you might be our friend,» was all I could think to say. The words had no sooner escaped me than I wished not to have spoken them; they sounded so bitter, so petty, compared to what I had desired to say.

But Kirinar seemed not to hear this – or, if she did, there was no trace of it in her reply. «And I am, Garatron,» she said earnestly. «Truly, I am. It would be inexcusable in me not to be, after the kindness the four of you have shown me. And I confess that I would indeed rather sojourn on unknown worlds than spend the rest of my life in the Selicar Refuge.

«But I beg of you, Garatron, if I on my part have in any way earned your friendship: do not require me to oppose my love for you to my love of my people. I cannot say which would prevail, but I know that neither would be the better for the conflict.»

There was little I could say after that. A silence fell on our gathering, broken only when Limilt, who had been pacing in thoughtful silence behind me all the while, stepped forward. «Well, then,» he said, «if you have quite finished torturing an innocent maiden with hypothetical dilemmas, perhaps we can address a rather more practical matter.»

I sighed, and turned to him. «What do you mean, Limilt?»

«I am referring to the problem of getting our hands on Scholar Falkrith's vessel,» said Limilt. «So far as I can see, we have two alternatives: we can either petition the Council to give it to us, or we can seize it by force. As to the former, I hardly think that a Council that refuses even to return a stolen juvenile to her homeland will be at all likely to turn the most expensive and revolutionary piece of technology in history over to her and her friends, no matter how eloquently Berel pleads the justice of our cause. As to the latter, how are five dozen undersized juveniles without tail-blades supposed to seize a starship from several hundred fully tailed Andalite adults?»

The question was a fair one. In retrospect, it rather surprises me that neither Shisken nor I had considered it before; perhaps we were deliberately avoiding it. Certainly, Limilt's calm assessment that we might have to seize the vessel by force unnerved me; I had not, till then, envisioned our quest for liberty as involving violence.

Still, the question, having been raised, needed answering. I considered. «Is there any way we can overcome their advantage of force? Are there any substitutes for tail-blades?»

«Many,» said Limilt. «There are the tusks of the _sharbat_, the coils of the _uliarth_, the toxic projectiles with which the _reesi-al_ brings down its prey. Sadly, however, when nature deprived us of our tail-blades, it failed to provide us with any of these substitutes.»

Kirinar laughed. «If only you had the Stone of Sadellun,» she commented. «Then you could charm all the beasts you needed into serving as your foot soldiers.» She held up the rock in her hand, and began to declaim in the tone that I had heard her use when she told me the story of her life. «"Forward, legions of sky and marshland! Forward, warriors feathered and scaled! Saprec's son holds your hearts in his hand; defend him, who grasps the artifact of your wildness!"»

Limilt glanced at her bemusedly. «Yes, that would doubtless solve a great many of our problems,» he agreed. «In the meantime, has anyone anything _non_-mythological to suggest?»

«We might be able to infiltrate the launch site unobserved…» Shisken suggested vaguely.

«No,» I said. «The region from which Falkrith's ship took off last night is the most wide-open grassland on the Northern Continent. The most slipshod Andalite security could not fail to notice us advancing on it – and I very much doubt that the security surrounding so revolutionary an invention will be at all slipshod.»

«There must be some way,» Shisken insisted. «The sentient mind, properly applied, can overcome all obstacles. Isn't that what we were always taught?»

«Not precisely,» said Limilt. «We were taught that, if a solution to a problem exists, it is the glory of the sentient mind that it can find it. But, if the problem of its very nature admits of no solution, the sentient mind is only glorious if it is willing to recognize that fact. Only a fool attempts to square the circle, and only a fool attempts to fight without weapons. And the essence of our problem is that we have no weapons.»

That seemed to summarize the matter to a nicety. No further words were spoken for some minutes; the silence was broken only by a sad laugh from Kirinar. «Well,» she said, «I see I shall have to acclimate myself to life in the Selicar after all. Well, doubtless there are worse fates.»

She cast a brief, winsome look up at the sky; perhaps she was bidding farewell to the infinite horizons that she had been so briefly offered. Then, with a gesture of stoic renunciation, she tossed aside the stone that she had been holding.

Too hard, perhaps. Instead of dropping unceremoniously to the ground, the way I believe she had intended, it tumbled through the air at a 60° angle and struck Limilt squarely on the right foreshin.

Limilt cried out in pain, and Kirinar started. «Oh!» she exclaimed. «Oh, Limilt, forgive me! My eye-hand coordination has always been wretched; I assure you, I didn't mean…»

But Limilt did not seem to be listening to her. He was staring at the commonplace lump of quartzite as though he had never seen such a wonder before; then, abruptly, he reached down, picked it up, and then threw it deliberately at his shin again, with twice the force that Kirinar had used.

«Limilt!» I exclaimed. «In the name of all the Powers, what are you doing?»

«He's gone mad,» said Shisken. «I knew it would happen eventually.»

Limilt raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were watering with pain, but there was a gleam in them that I had never seen before. «On the contrary, Shisken,» he said. «I was mad hitherto – or deluded, at least. I believe I owe you an apology; you were perfectly right in insisting that our dilemma was soluble by sentient ingenuity.»

«What do you mean?» said Shisken uncertainly.

«I said that we could not prevail over the Andalites because they bear weapons, and we do not,» said Limilt. «What I failed to consider was that a weapon need not be inborn. A weapon is simply a tool that is used to cause injury; if Andalites happen to bear theirs on their tails, that is no reason why we cannot carry ours in our hands.» He held up Kirinar's rock. «When Kirinar threw this and hit me, it was merely an accident. But then I threw it at myself, and it became a weapon.»

He looked into our staring faces one by one. «Do you not see? This is our equivalency with the Andalites. No, more: this is our _advantage_ over the Andalites. The Andalites know nothing of this; because their tails are such effective weapons, they have never bothered to learn other ways of inflicting injury. It would never occur to them that one might wound or even kill an enemy without being anywhere near him – that a small force, equipped with the proper sort of tools, could lay an entire army low without ever getting within tail-blade range. That is our secret, and ours alone.»

«One moment, Limilt,» I broke in. «You are not suggesting, surely, that we are going to seize Scholar Falkrith's vessel by throwing rocks at the guards?»

«Of course not,» said Limilt easily.

That reassured me. I knew how frenzied Limilt was capable of getting once an idea was in his head; it was good to know that he was still willing to be rational about this one.

«We will throw tail-blades.»

My reassurance vanished.


	11. Eurema

I had thought, at first, that Limilt's comment about throwing tail-blades at the Andalites might be merely one of his attempts at humor; it certainly fit the pattern of willful absurdity. It seemed, though, that he was perfectly serious. To demonstrate, he led us halfway across the Refuge, to one of the largest of the northeastern till piles, and then knelt down and began digging through the rocks.

«What are you looking for?» said Kirinar.

Limilt, never one to explain himself until he was ready, ignored her. «There must be some here,» he murmured. «I know there are deposits in the Sub-Polar Islands; when the glaciers traveled south, they must have brought some… ah, here.» And he held up a jagged, gray-brown pebble.

I stared at it. «Chert?»

Limilt nodded. «I knew an old sculptor once who swore by it,» he said. «She specialized in clay busts of prominent Andalites, and she had a large array of chert tools that she used to carve the fine detail into the faces. You see, one can hardly use a tail-blade for that kind of work – unless one is a contortionist, that is – and chert has the advantage of being able to duplicate a tail-blade's sharpness quite nicely.»

The four of us glanced at each other as his implications sunk in. «You mean,» said Kirinar slowly, «that we could shape these stones into artificial tail-blades and… and launch them at the other Andalites from a great distance?»

«Why not?» said Limilt.

«But this is absurd,» I said. «Even the strongest of Andalites could only throw a stone a few hundred yards; we would be lucky to send it ten. If you were proposing a game of Impale-the-_Morrimil_, it might do well enough; as a plan of attack against a heavily defended Andalite base, it's sheer madness.»

Limilt hesitated. «You think so?»

«I'm quite certain of it.»

«Hmm.» Limilt kicked at the grass thoughtfully for a minute or two. «Well, I suppose that spoils my idea, then. If only there was some way of propelling an object a great distance without having to rely on one's arm muscles…»

I chuckled. «Like the jets on space-exploration vessels, you mean? No, I hardly think that attaching rockets to chert blades would be practical – and, in any event, none of us have the technical expertise to build them. The only thing I can think of that could even theoretically work would be some exploitation of tensile force.»

Limilt glanced at me with interest. «Tensile force?»

«You must be familiar with it,» I said. «Every physics tutor in the world uses it as an example of stored energy. You take a cord of some kind and stretch it taut across a wooden frame; then you take a small rod with a notch in the end and slip it onto the string, and then draw the string back until…»

«Ah, yes, I remember,» said Limilt with a laugh. «And then you release the string, the rod flies through the air and breaks your stepfather's newest piece of glass sculpture, and your mother confines you to the scoop for the next century.»

«Precisely.»

Limilt nodded. «Yes, I can see how that would work,» he said. «The rods could be tipped with chert to make them into blades – yes, it could work quite well. It's only a pity that we don't have the necessary materials to make the cord.»

«But we do,» I said. «There are _chikinee_ plants growing throughout the Refuge; extracting the fiber from them would be a simple enough matter for…»

I trailed off, realizing the trap that Limilt had laid for me. But it was too late; triumph was gleaming in the little humorist's eyes. «Well,» he said, «it seems there is a way out of our difficulty, after all. Thank the Powers for science – and for Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, whose upbringing has so superbly equipped him to design weapons of warfare.»

«Limilt…» I began.

Then I caught a glimpse of Shisken's face, and realized the futility of further protest. Even I, obtuse as I was in such matters, could read the expression in her eyes; she was already envisioning herself flinging chert-tipped rods at the Andalite oppressors, and no amount of rational argument would deter her.

I looked around at the others. Berel's expression, of course, hadn't changed, but I saw no reason to doubt that he would support the scheme – and Kirinar's dominant emotion, so far as I could read it in her face, seemed to be reluctant admiration of Limilt's ingenuity. No, there was no point in attempting to argue the project down. Better to accede for now, and let the frustrations of practical engineering (of which Grandfather had so often spoken) dampen everyone's enthusiasm for the theory on their own.

«Very well,» I said. «Kirinar, I suggest that you help Limilt find and sharpen the chert nodules. Shisken and Berel can gather _chikinee_ and branches for the rods, and I will see about designing a workable frame.»

Limilt dipped his tail in the ritual gesture of obeisance. «We are indeed fortunate, we of the Selicar,» he said, «to have such a wise and clement leader as the illustrious Prince Garatron.»

«Tell it to the _saltuar_, Limilt,» I said privately. **(5)**

* * *

**(5)**

_«"Tell it to the _saltuar_"?» Tobias repeated. «What's that mean?»_

_«Um.» Ax lowered his eyes, and shuffled his hooves awkwardly. «It means __… that is, in a sense, it__… ah__… well, roughly speaking, it means "Don't call me prince".»_

_«Ah.» Had he been in human form, Tobias would have smirked. «Gotcha.»_


	12. Pathe

I do not think – he will forgive me if I am wrong – that Limilt himself fully believed in his scheme for overcoming the Andalites. His was a temperament that was quite ready to conceive fanciful notions, and even to attempt to realize them, for the mere pleasure of seeing an elegant dream take shape. A rebellion against a mighty empire, a band of crippled exiles achieving power and glory, devices that could cause death to fly through the air – no son of a master poetess could be expected not to pursue such visions. But he had no love of war in itself, and he never underestimated the resistance of reality to being made into a romantic poem. (Indeed, if anything, he overestimated it; when history did become a romance at our hands, I believe he was more surprised than anyone.)

Perhaps Shisken and Berel believed in the scheme more fully; perhaps even Kirinar thought it not unlikely that it would succeed. (I, of course, had no faith in it at all, at that stage.) But this, in the end, made little difference; soon, all five of us were forced to act as though we were assured, one and all, of victory.

It is strange how we had almost forgotten the other Misborn. Perhaps they were too modest to remind us often of themselves; perhaps it had to do with the vastness of the Refuge; perhaps it was merely unconscious arrogance on our part. In any case, we (or, at least, I) had dropped into a habit of treating our quintet as the whole population of the Selicar. But, once rumors of our plans began to circulate about the hills, such thoughtlessness ceased to be possible – for even the humblest multitude may have an opinion about its leaders' actions, and multitudes have a way of making their opinions felt.

* * *

It started with the _gasturbat_ feathers. One morning, a few days after Limilt proposed his scheme, I was feeding on a hill not far from the ridge when one of the younger Misborn ran suddenly out of nowhere and darted for a spot directly in front of my right hoof. Hastily, I reared back to keep myself from trampling the little maniac, but, having never been particularly coordinated, I found myself unable, on such short notice, to arrange my hind legs so that they would support my weight. The result was predictable; the mercy was that there was no _morrimil_ hole nearby, so I didn't twist an ankle as I tumbled to the ground.

The junior Selicarite looked up with a small gasp, and I recognized it as Haruthi-Kannama-Jiskul, the female with the sickly twin of whom Berel had spoken, that night on the hilltop. «Elder Garatron, I apologize!» she squeaked. «I didn't see… I would never have…»

I waved a hand, disentangling my legs and rising from the ground with little struggle. «It is nothing, Haruthi,» I said. «But what was in the neighborhood of my hooves that fascinated you so?»

«Oh, that,» said Haruthi, twitching her head shyly. «A small thing, really. But I wanted to gather them before you passed by, lest you absorb them without seeing.» And she held out her hand, so that I could see the three red-gray shapes nestled in her palm.

I stared. «_Gasturbat _feathers?»

Haruthi nodded. «As I say, it was of no great importance,» she said. «There are so many others, it would have been no great loss had you absorbed these. It is merely that I hate to see a thing wasted.»

«Of course,» I said. (In truth, this was an impulse that I shared with Haruthi.) «But of what value are _gasturbat_ feathers, in any case?»

Haruthi cocked her head in puzzlement. «Do you not know, then?» she said. «I had assumed that Elder Limilt had acted in your name – or, at least, with your consent.»

«Acted?» I repeated, with a distinct feeling of trepidation. «What has Limilt done?»

«Well, I only received the story at third or fourth hand,» said Haruthi, «but I understand that he wishes us to gather as many _gasturbat_ feathers as possible, and to bring them to your dwelling-area.» She gestured in the direction of the ridge. «Apparently, they are an important tool in your plan to avenge us on the Andalites.»

A chill went down my spine. _To avenge us,_ had she said? Yes – and she had said "the Andalites" in the tone in which one says "the Na" or "the Anati". She had spoken of them as of an alien race – and she had done it quite easily and naturally. Berel, speaking with the intensity of a passionate theorist, was one thing; that this modest, simple female should echo his thought in such a fashion – that was another thing entirely, and it was, if anything, the more frightening of the two.

It took me some time to form a sensible reply. «I see,» I said, endeavoring to sound casual and sympathetic. «And you think that plan a good thing, so naturally you are helping him.»

«All of us are helping him,» said Haruthi. «This is the Selicar Refuge; we are the people of Garatron.» (Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that she dipped her tail to me slightly as she spoke these words.) «If we cannot trust you and your friends to know and to do what is good, there is nothing for us anywhere.»

I have reflected on those words many times since. My friends and I had become figures of authority in the Selicar, not by any merit of ours, but by an accident of the timing of our arrivals. But this made no difference, it seemed, to Haruthi. However we had come by our authority, we had it, and Haruthi respected it as solemnly and unquestioningly as if we had been chosen out of all the world for our wisdom. Let those who would make light of the favors of Fortune reflect on this.

«And besides,» Haruthi added – and her voice, though it remained soft, was suddenly trembling with passion – «is it not good to make the Andalites feel what they have done to us? Had it not been for their conventions, Rithinal would have long since been taken to the Elophris mineral springs to regain her strength. But a _vecol_ must not be brought among such crowds, and so…» The tufts of the _gasturbat_ feathers trembled in her hands, and she lowered her head, blinking furiously.

«Yes,» I said softly. «Yes, I see.» And I did. I saw more, indeed, than I cared to see – just as, once before, another young female's sorrow had shown me another unpleasant vista of reality.

«They must be shown,» Haruthi whispered. «It cannot be that they are permitted to do this, and then simply to die.»

And she looked up at me, waiting, I believe, for either my concurrence or my rebuke. But I found myself unable to give either, and all that I said, after a long and aching silence, was, «Give me the feathers. I will see that Limilt gets them.»

This time I was certain that Haruthi dipped her tail. She pressed the soft objects into my palm, waited for the space of a few heartbeats, and then turned and ran off towards the makeshift scoop where she and her sister dwelt.

I, in my turn, headed toward the knoll. I was anxious to speak to Limilt, and to the others as well; it seemed to me that they had a great deal to explain.


End file.
